


Psycho

by erazedtrash



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erazedtrash/pseuds/erazedtrash
Summary: Matt is dead inside, doesn't really care about anything or anyone. Then he has to get into therapy and things seem to change...Trigger warnings: Strong language, mentions of abuse, graphic violence, death, su*cide





	1. Chapter 1

Everything is grey. The pavement I walk on, the street that is next to it, the sky above me and the people around me.

The people aren't grey in a literal way. There's just nothing special about them. They call it being mainstream. What is so good about being mainstream? Why not do something radical to be different, to stand out? How do you do it? Stand out?

I stop walking for a second and look around. A way to stand out is to break the rules. Violence breaks the rules.

One is just being called violent as long as they hurt someone, right? I like that. Not the idea of it but the action itself. Hurting people. They show emotions they wouldn't usually show. This way they finally stand out, aren't grey anymore.

I smile to myself and start laughing quietly. A little girl walking past me together with her parents is giving me a curious and at the same time kind of scared look. I clench my teeth and glare at her. Her eyes widen and she backs off, grabbing her mother's hand and going a bit faster.

I know I'm gonna be late for my first therapy session but I don't care. I only go there because it's part of the conditions of probation. I hate this. I hate having people ask me whether I feel sorry for what I've done. My answer always stays the same. I don't feel sorry. I don't feel guilty. I just don't give a fuck about what is going on around me and what other people are doing.

My therapist's name is something like Dominic Howard. What kind of gay fucking name is that? Dominic Whore. That's better. More memorable for me.

I eventually reach the place I'm supposed to go to.

I sigh and kick the door. Two elderly people who are standing behind it give me surprised and at the same time kind of annoyed looks but I don't care.

That's why I have to go here. Because I'm a psycho.

The woman at the reception desk tells me where I have to go and I leave without thanking her or returning the wishes when she says "Have a nice day, sir."

"Ah, Mr Bellamy! I'm glad you made it!" a blonde guy exclaims and stretches out his hand. I ignore the gesture and just stare at him with a blank face expression.

"Let's just get this over with," I say. The guy lowers his hand and nods.

"Of course," he replies. "Take a seat, please."

I sit down and take a look at the clock that is hanging on the wall. I groan loudly and put my feet on the table. The man, who I assume is my therapist Dominic Whore or whatever, notices it but he doesn't say anything.

We sit there in silence for a while and I'm growing tempted to just leave.

"Why were you late, Mr Bellamy? Or are you comfortable with me calling you Matt?" the therapist asks.

I ignore him at first. "I don't think that's any of your business," I reply eventually and grit my teeth.

"Well, it is. It's my job to take care of your well-being, Matt," he remarks and smiles sadly.

I purse my lips and look outside the window. "It's not my job to care," I point out, get up and walk outside.


	2. Chapter 2

I go back home. I don't care if that blonde guy wants me to come back, wants to go after me. There's nothing wrong with me. Why should I go to therapy?

I snort and shake my head. Why would anybody have the right to tell me what to do?  _I_  know what's best for me. And that definitely doesn't consist of having some weak ass pillock tell me that I need help and that I'm sick. That's bullshit. I don't need a fucking shrink to take care of me. I can take care of myself.

I grit my teeth and decide to go to the bar instead of going home right away. When I sit down I notice someone approaching me from my left. I turn my head and in front of me is a girl.

"Hello there," I greet her and smile, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her closer. She smiles back and gasps quietly when I run my fingers along her side. I pull her on my lap and kiss her. She looks me in the eye and jerks her chin towards the back exit, giving me a questioning look.

"You know what I want," I say and grin.

 

-

 

" _Wow_ ," she breathes and I laugh quietly. She moves a bit closer but I push her away. "Babe, what are you doing?" she asks in a confused voice.

"You can leave now," I tell her and she opens, then closes her mouth. "Now don't cry and come at me like  _'I thought you loved me!'_  It was your job to entertain me. Now your job is done, so leave."

"How can you be so cold?" the girl whose name I don't know hisses and spits in my face before she grabs her clothes and walks out of the room.

I put my hands behind my head and look at the ceiling. Then I shrug indifferently. I like myself just the way I am.

My phone rings. Eight missed calls. The phone number is unknown. I reject the incoming call. Just a couple of seconds later it rings again. I ignore it. After a while I'm pretty pissed off so I pick it up and answer it. "What now?" I ask in an annoyed voice.

"Mr Bellamy, you need to get back to therapy immediately because if you don't... Well, think about the conditions of probation. If you don't attend the therapy session, you'll have to go back to prison," the person, who I assume is my lovely therapist, states.

I sigh and roll my eyes. "I don't get why I had to go to prison in the first place," I groan.

"You served a prison sentence over several years, Matt," Mr Howard remarks. "You commited a crime. An act of violence."

"Self-defense," I mock and laugh out loud. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"I'll call someone to pick you up and bring you here," the therapist tells me in a quiet voice.

"I don't need that. I'm perfectly fine," I point out.

"I've seen your patient file. You are everything but fine. I know your story. You almost beat one of your fellow inmates to death because he sat in your spot in the lunch room. And before that..." Mr Howard says and trails off.

"Yeah, tell me everything about it. I know my story as well. But I like hearing it. So go ahead. Tell me what I'm supposed to feel guilty for," I return and grin.


	3. Chapter 3

The therapist is quiet for a couple of seconds. "Look, Matt. I'm trying to help y-"

"I know, I know," I grumble as I grab my stuff and leave.  _'I'm gonna go home,'_  I say to myself.

Mr Howard sighs. "I'm going to read your patient file to you. I shouldn't do that but maybe you'll decide to come back here then. If you don't, you'll be in trouble," he tells me and I roll my eyes.

"Fine, I'll come to you," I groan.

 

-

 

Now I'm back at his office or whatever the fuck. Fantastic. He gives me a long look.

"What?!" I snap and he flinches. The therapist grabs a pencil and scribbles something on the notebook in front of him. "Now you're writing that down, or what?  _'That crazy fucker yelled at me'_?" I hiss and clench my teeth.

Mr Howard shakes his head. "No, I'm not writing that down."

I lean back in my chair and stare at him. "Mr Howard, can I tell you something?" I inquire in a dead serious voice. He looks up, slightly surprised.

"First of all, call me Dominic or Dom. And second of all, of course you can," the therapist returns and waits for me to say something.

I take a deep breath and give him a brief smile. Then I put on a blank face expression. "I'm gonna leave," I say and walk towards the door. When I push down the door handle, I notice the door is locked. I turn around slowly. "You motherf-" He stands right in front of me.

"Sit down, Matt," he says in a calm voice. It feels like I'm seeing his eyes for the first time. They're grey. Not like the pavement, not like the street, not like the mainstream people. There is life behind them. They're beautiful. I have this strange feeling inside me. "Sit down," Dominic repeats. I do so. He sighs. "This is your patient file."

I stare at him without saying anything or showing any other reaction. The therapist clears his throat.

_'Matthew James Bellamy, born June 9 1978 in Cambridge._

_March 7 2012: Domestic violence and accusation of rape. Mr Bellamy beat his girlfriend over several weeks. She was brought to the hospital with seven broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a mild concussion and a sprained ankle._

_October 6 2013: Assault. Mr Bellamy beat one of his fellow inmates. According to him, he snapped after his seat in the lunch room was already taken. The victim suffered a severe concussion and a broken arm. Mr Bellamy was ordered to attend regular therapy sessions in prison._

_December 18 2016: Mr Bellamy was released for good behaviour. His (mental) state has improved a lot due to therapy. He hasn't shown any signs of violence for over two months. To make sure Mr Bellamy is no threat, he will continue attenting therapy sessions outside of prison.'_  Mr Howard stops reading. I remain quiet.

The therapist watches me. "You know what I think, Matt? You are an excellent liar." He points his finger at me and I stare at him with a blank face expression. "Your mental state has not improved one bit."


	4. Chapter 4

I look at him in silence. I know he is waiting for me to react, to protest, but I don't. "How did you know?" I ask him as my face breaks into a grin.

"Matt, I know people like you. Th-" I interrupt him.

" _'People like me'_ , huh?" I scoff. "So you are someone who knows someone. Wow." I stop talking for a second and shake my head, laughing. " _Faaascinating_." I smile broadly.

"Matt, why do you think you are like this?" Dominic inquires.

I raise my eyebrows. "Like what? I'm perfectly fine."

The therapist glances at me for a couple of seconds and shakes his head. "You're lying and you know it," he says and looks me in the eye.

I clench my teeth and remain silent. Dominic stands up from his chair and approaches me. He sits down on the edge of his desk, right in front of where I'm sitting. He bends slightly forward so that I can feel his sweet breath on my skin.

"Why do you think you are the way you are?" he repeats and I bite my lip. His eyes are irritating or rather  _distracting_  so I decide to look down.

After a while of thinking about it I raise my head again and my electric blue eyes meet his grey ones. I take a deep breath. "I'm fine," I respond and Dom sighs.

"Matt, you're making my job very damn hard. First you just run away and now you keep lying to my face."

"Is the sentence ' _I'm fine_ ' so bloody hard to understand? How many fucking times do I have to repeat myself?!" I yell at him. Dominic looks down at me without batting an eye. It seems like expected me to snap. "What?" I scoff. "Was that a fucking test? Are you trying to provoke me?" I ask.

The therapist still stares at me. "If it helps."

I'm so confused. I lean back in my chair and shake my head. "I don't fucking get it. I told you I'm fine, I told you that my well-being is none of your business, I told you that I can take care of myself...  _What the fuck do you want to hear_?" I observe in a grim voice. The grey eyes are watching me again.

"The truth, Matt. I want the truth. It's inside you. You know it. And even if you don't think you can handle the truth... That doesn't mean that you mustn't talk about it nor does it mean that you have to deal with it on your own," Dominic explains. I remain silent. "Matt, tell me something."

"What?"

"Tell me if you think there might be a chance you need help?" the therapist inquires and I bite my lip. He waits as I think about what he asked me.

"Actually... I think..." I trail off.

"Yes, go ahead," Dominic encourages me.

"I don't need a babysitter."


End file.
